Chapter Three

Mr. Harkinson had made his way to Cheapside for a meeting with The League, feeling as if he might be on the way to his own funeral. He'd come very early so that he might have some minutes to compose himself.

He used one of the six keys to the place, each member having their own set, and let himself in.

The rooms were at one time consisting of a foyer, sitting room, and bedchamber. The League had, over the years, rearranged things to their satisfaction and comfort.

What had been the sitting room was remade to their meeting room. Thick carpets and comfortable leather chairs had been brought in. The chairs were set in a circle, very like King Arthur's round table. Though, there was no actual round table. Each chair had its own small walnut side table. Navy velvet curtains had been hung in the windows overlooking the street to hush the traffic out of doors.

A carved wood plaque of their motto, Cum Virtute, was hung over the mantel.

The second room had been transformed into a library and smoking room and had a very pleasant view of the back garden. It had a long sofa upholstered in grey velvet, two well-padded chairs, two matching footstools, and a cabinet of refreshments of the fortifying kind.

If a member found themselves at loose ends because their family had gone off to visit someone overnight, they might take a few hours of repose in those comfortable environs. They might put their feet up and drink a glass of port. Every club of any renown had such a room, they imagined. Mr. Rennington often took advantage of it as he said the room was calming—the fellow even kept a pair of slippers in a closet.

As Mr. Harkinson paced, he attempted to feel the calming influence Mr. Rennington was always talking about.

Then he heard it. A carriage. Then another one. He raced to the window. The carriages were all arriving. Of course they were, no self-respecting butler arrived late for an appointment!

Footfalls on the stairs, a key in the lock, and the other members of the league filed in.

After the greetings were accomplished and every man took his particular chair, the landlord's wife, Mrs. Belkey, hurried in with a tea tray and biscuits. They had long arranged for it to be delivered every Thursday afternoon and she never missed a day. The landlord himself was very fond of their tenancy, as they paid on time, paid to have it cleaned weekly, and were generally only there once a week during the season.

After the tea was passed round and Mrs. Belkey shut the door behind her, Mr. Browning said, "To business, gentlemen. We are here to discuss how it was for Lady Jemima at Almack's last evening."

Mr. Wilburn cleared his throat. "Several matters were mentioned to me this morning over breakfast."

Mr. Harkinson felt his heart turning to ice in his chest. He did not himself know what had gone on at Almack's, other than to know that Lady Jemima had been determined to present herself as herself. That was sufficient to know!

Mr. Feldstaffer nodded gravely. "I, as well. Lady's maids—an ever-flowing font of information."

"I heard she laughs a bit, well a bit, louder than might be expected," Mr. Penny said.

"And pours lemonade on her cake," Mr. Rennington said, shaking his head sadly.

"Oh but I did hear that the Dowager Duchess of Ralston followed suit with her tea, so perhaps that was not as bad as it sounds," Mr. Penny said.

"It might even become the fashion, then?" Mr. Browning said.

"There is worse news than unique table manners, I'm afraid," Mr. Wilburn said. "A viscount of my earl's acquaintance complained to him that Lady Jemima informed him that his clothes smelled musty."

The other butlers gasped.

"She said he ought to talk to his valet about it."

Mr. Rennington spilled some of his tea on the carpet and then hurried to mop it up with a pile of napkins.

Mr. Harkinson suppressed a sigh. Of course she had laughed too loud, and poured lemonade on her cake, and informed a gentleman of what was wrong with his clothes. Those were precisely the sorts of things she'd always done.

He had no choice but to trot out the only excuse he'd been able to come up with. He knew very well that he should confess all. He ought to tell his fellow members that the descriptions of Lady Jemima he'd given in the past had been…rather hopeful. Or a complete lie, as it happened.

But he could not make himself do it. He was part of an esteemed secret society and would be dashed upon the rocks if he were thrown out of it.

"Gentlemen," he said, holding a hand up, "I am afraid I must tell you of something I have not revealed to protect the privacy of all involved. I had hoped it would not be necessary, but it seems that it is necessary."

Mr. Rennington finished his mopping up of tea and sat back in his chair. The rest of the gentlemen leaned forward.

Mr. Harkinson took a breath, then said, "A few months ago, Lady Jemima was in a rather terrible carriage accident."

"A carriage accident!" Mr. Browning exclaimed.

Mr. Harkinson nodded, though he did not know why Browning sounded as if he'd never heard of such a thing. Carriage accidents happened all the time—it was why he'd picked the circumstance for his story.

"A carriage accident, Mr. Browning," he said gravely. "She received a terribly hard blow to the head and was unconscious for some days. When she awoke, it was discovered that the commotion to her brain had…well, it had affected her temperament. She is still recovering from it."

"I have heard of such things," Mr. Penny said. "A boxer might sometimes experience it from being hit once too often."

"But why have the duke and duchess brought her for a season, then?" Mr. Feldstaffer asked. "Why not wait until next year?"

"A fair question, Mr. Feldstaffer," Mr. Harkinson said. "The duke and duchess were confident of her speedy and full recovery. In truth, she has recovered quite a bit and no longer has the regular outbursts that occurred in the beginning of all this."

"Outbursts," Mr. Feldstaffer whispered.

"But she does still carry some ill-effects from it?" Mr. Browning asked.

Mr. Harkinson put his chin up. This was the moment he really had to be convincing. He must tie all the things Lady Jemima had done or might do in the near future to a terrible carriage accident.

"It seems there are still a few lingering symptoms," he said. "She can sometimes laugh too loud, or say something that should be kept to one's thoughts, or eat excessively, or ride her horse in a rather fast manner."

"Her horse! Why would they let her ride her horse?" Mr. Rennington cried. "She might be thrown and have a second head injury."

That was, of course, a very good question. To which Mr. Harkinson had no sensible answer.

He said, "Gentlemen, though we do our best to guide our families, we do not always have our way. If it were up to me, Lady Jemima's horse would have been left behind in the country."

The members of the league all shook their heads resignedly over that idea, as they all knew it to be perfectly true. Their lords and ladies could be headstrong and go their own way on occasion.

"It seems to me," Mr. Browning said, "that the question for the league is what we are to do about the current situation? Lady Jemima is here and not quite in her right mind, what's to be done about it?"

Mr. Harkinson stayed silent, as he knew there was not a thing to be done about it.

"Do you suppose she'll stay as she is?" Mr. Penny asked. "Or might she continue to improve?"

"That is in God's hands, Mr. Penny," Mr. Harkinson said. Though, he knew the real answer—there was no chance of improvement, as Mrs. Ramsey, Mrs. Lodewell, and Mr. Gamon could heartily attest to.

"We can at least put it about that the lady is recovering from a head injury—it would create some sympathy and tamp down any pernicious gossip," Mr. Wilburn said. "Now, Mr. Harkinson, I know you view this as a private family matter, but it really would be best."

Mr. Harkinson nodded in acquiescence as he knew not what else to do. It seemed the ton was to be informed that Lady Jemima could not be blamed for her behavior—it was all a coachman's fault. He must just pray that news did not enter his own house, or if it did that nobody knew where it came from.

He was such a fraud!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jasper examined the maps of the Thames on the desk in his bedchamber. The morrow, should the weather hold, would bring Lord Bestwick's annual hundred-guinea regatta on the Thames. Lord Worther had edged him out last season, but this year he had a faster boat. He was determined to take it this year.

The rules for the boat were straightforward—a one-mast dinghy no longer than twenty-two feet carrying only a captain and one crew.

He, Randolph, and a builder named Cranston had designed and built a streamlined boat from spruce planks, with steamed oak for the frame. The sailmaker had procured fine-woven linen made from flax from the Netherlands. The end result was a beauty—they had christened her The Diana for the goddess of the hunt. He thought it very fitting, as he was on the hunt to win this year. They had taken her out several times off the coast of Brighton and she had acquitted herself well.

Randolph would crew, and the two of them had sailed so long and often together that they hardly needed words to communicate. Randolph would know when to pinch the sail and when to give it out.

As much as Jasper stared at the map, allegedly to review every inch of the Thames they would sail, he could not keep his mind on it.

Randolph was talking about some bend in the river and pointing it out. If he recalled right, it was where Worther had managed to get on his windward side last season.

It was no use, he could not keep his mind on it.

Jasper said, "I am fun, do not you think?"

His valet's head snapped up. "Fun?"

Jasper did not care for Randolph's incredulous tone. "Yes, fun. I can be fun when I have a mind. When it is the appropriate time to be fun."

"Ah, I see!" his valet said. "The appropriate time simply hasn't rolled round yet. I eagerly await its appearance."

"Very funny."

"If only you could be," Randolph said, snorting at his own wit.

Jasper went back to staring at the map, thoroughly sick of discussing fun.

"As this is the first moment in years that you are interested in taking a run at being fun," his very bold valet said, "I must think there is a cause?"

He really did not wish to discuss Lady Jemima with his valet, but who else could he tell of the hundred conflicting ideas he had of her? He could not tell his friends, they did not discuss anything of that sort. They talked of their successes and anything that might be less than a triumph was left unsaid. If one were to stay silent at a table at White's, all one would hear was news of won bets, won races, won investments, and won ladies.

"A certain Lady Jemima might have made some comment in that direction," he mumbled.

"She did not appreciate your grim visage," Randolph said, as if he understood it all.

"Grim visage? I hardly think that a sense of decorum amounts to a grim visage."

"Apparently, she does, though. Is she pretty?"

"Gloriously pretty, as it happens. Though, I must wonder if we are suited. She has nothing on my list of requirements—I was taken aback several times last evening."

"I knew that would happen, did I not say so? Pitter-patter and then out goes the list. Well, just loosen up and be more fun and then I reckon she'll go for you."

Loosen up? Be more fun? Then she would "go" for me?

"Randolph," he said, feeling his hackles raise, "I have no intention of "loosening up" as if I am some sort of feckless dandy who goes round loose all the time. Rather, I think it would behoove Lady Jemima to rein in her behavior."

"Do you suppose she wants to?" Randolph asked.

"I cannot imagine why not," Jasper said. Though, he could imagine why not. She'd outright said she was pleased to be herself. "She ought to wish it, in any case. I expect she'll come to realize it."

Randolph sighed. "Your Grace," he said, "my ma was forever explaining to my da that a woman's nature is fixed. She couldn't be bothered to wash his shirts as often as he liked, or mind the chickens, or see that he had his favored cut of beef. Her nature was against all those things and there was naught he could do about it."

"While that homespun tale emanating from a farmer's abode has its charms, I hardly think it applies to the daughter of a duke."

"The daughter of a duke? Well now, she's just as elevated as you are and I suppose she can do what she likes."

"No she is not, and no she cannot," Jasper said, entirely irritated.

"If you're that set on your list of requirements, I suppose you ought to look elsewhere."

Jasper supposed he should too. Though, he did not wish to look elsewhere. He had danced with the Birth of Venus last evening and he was determined to do so again. He must just somehow inspire this particular Venus to better comportment.

And then, an idea began to take shape. He could inspire, could he not? He could guide and prod in the right direction.

She was a young lady and should be guided.

"Yes, certainly it can be done."

"What can be done?" Randolph asked.

"I can simply guide Lady Jemima to the behaviors and demeanors that would suit my future duchess."

Randolph shook his head. "I hope we have better luck at the regatta than you'll ever have with that notion. Did you not hear my ma's words about a woman's fixed nature? If she's set on ignoring the chickens, that's what she'll do!"

Jasper did not respond to that warning. There was simply nothing he could say to being compared to a henhouse.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jemima paced with anticipation in the drawing room. Half of London did the same, all waiting for someone to come back with news that the flag had been raised over Westminster Bridge. That would be the signal that Lord Bestwick's regatta would take place on the morrow. If the flag were not raised on account of inclement weather expected, then they must repeat the entire process of waiting on the following day.

The bells of St. Margaret's would ring too when the flag was raised, but the fog was so heavy at the moment that Jemima did not think the sound could reach Grosvenor Square. She did not mind fog, as it put a lovely hush over everything, but just now she would like to hear the bells!

She had never been to a regatta and looked forward to seeing how it was done. And seeing how the gentlemen sailing in it made out. Her mother had shown her the tickets and the list of the competitors. She had met several of the gentlemen, particularly Viscount Varnay, who'd been great fun at Almack's, and the Duke of Barstow, who had been less fun but wildly fun to look at.

There was to be a grand reception at the end of it, to take place at Carlton House. According to her mother, only those with a printed star on their ticket would be admitted to the prince's residence, as there had been near a thousand tickets sold to comers of all sorts.

Her father had rented a barge and its bargeman for the festivities so they might be in the middle of the action. And, he said, to avoid the pickpockets who'd probably bought half the tickets and would be cruising the banks.

She'd never been on a barge either!

Mr. Harkinson suddenly appeared in the doorway, seeming almost out of breath.

"Jimmy has returned, my lady. The flag has been raised for the morrow."

Jemima clapped her hands. They would rise before dawn and set off to be sure to get the barge into a good spot. According to the bargeman, it would be a free for all and only those arriving early had any hope of securing a good view.

It was all so mysterious and exciting—setting off in the darkness and drifting on the dark Thames, waiting for the dawn to come. The duchess had made all sorts of arrangements for hot coffee and chocolate and ale to be onboard. They would have ham sandwiches, and the awful anchovy sandwiches her father favored, and they would have blankets for their laps. It would be a real adventure.

Hugh, the first footman, hurried into the room with a vase of flowers. "Mr. Harkinson, this just come for Lady Jemima. My lady," he said, with a quick bow.

Mr. Harkinson frowned at the flowers, which did not surprise Jemima one jot. Mr. Harkinson generally frowned at all the world.

He nipped the note that had accompanied it from Hugh's fingertips and said, "I will deliver this to Her Grace, as would be expected."

Jemima sighed. She was not to know who the flowers were from or what sort of sentiment had been written. At least, not yet.

They could not keep from her the nature of the flowers themselves, though. It was a lovely arrangement of white musk roses—somebody thought she was charming and claimed he was worthy of her.

Her heart did skip a beat when she thought of the possibility of them being from the Duke of Barstow. He had said he'd be more fun outside of Almack's. No, that was not quite right. She had said he might be more fun outside of Almack's. But then, he'd not entirely disagreed with the speculation.

Sending flowers would be rather a fun thing to do.

Before Mr. Harkinson could speed off with the note that was addressed to her, the duchess entered the room. She took it all in with her hawk eyes, noting the flowers and the note in Mr. Harkinson's hand.

"Your Grace," Mr. Harkinson said, handing over the note, "this just arrived, addressed to Lady Jemima. I thought you would prefer to read it first."

"Quite right," her mother said. "That is all, Harkinson."

Mr. Harkinson bowed and exited the room, taking Hugh with him and shutting the doors.

The duchess glanced at the arrangement of flowers and said, "I know who I am hoping for, but we shall see."

As her mother unfolded the note, Jemima knew she hoped for the very same. Let it be the Duke of Barstow with some message meant to communicate his regard and his newfound commitment to fun.

The duchess scanned the note and heavily sighed. So, it was not from the duke.

"It is from Viscount Varnay," she said, frowning. "I realize you danced with him at Almack's."

"Yes, he was great fun," Jemima said. He had been great fun, though she did not see why he should send her flowers.

More frowns from the duchess.

"Your father does not care for him. In fact, he wondered what Lady Jersey was thinking to put him on your card."

Jemima supposed she could have guessed that. Lord Varnay was a bit too jolly for the duke's taste.

"He is more lively than Papa generally favors," Jemima said. "But my father cannot have anything real against him."

"I am not so sure about that," the duchess said pensively.

Jemima was a bit taken aback. Lord Varnay had been cheerful and amusing, what on earth could be wrong with him?

"What has Papa told you, then? I ought to know if there is some real reason to avoid the gentleman."

"He has not told me anything substantial," the duchess admitted. "However, men know more about other men than they ever tell their wives. Having known your father for the past quarter century, I do get the feeling that he has his reasons. I just do not know what they are."

"I will not condemn the gentleman on such flimsy evidence, it would not be fair," Jemima said. "On the other hand, I do not know why he should go to the expense of flowers. What does the note say?"

The duchess' eyes briefly traveled to the ceiling and back down again, a habit of hers when she found something ridiculous.

"For Lady Jemima, my sister Miss Pickering and I found her to be the liveliest lady at the ball."

"There is nothing offensive in that," Jemima said. "Though really, he should not have bothered."

"So you have no interest in Varnay?" the duchess asked.

"Not that sort of interest, I do not think. He is witty and entertaining and I quite like him for it," Jemima said. "I suspect he was urged to send it by his sister, Miss Pickering. She wishes to extend the acquaintance."

"I hold nothing against Miss Pickering. If that is the case," the duchess said, folding up the note, "I do not see that we need to trouble the duke with it. He will hardly notice a new vase of flowers in the room and he most certainly would not know its meaning. When he courted me, he once sent me a pot of marigolds—I thought somebody in his family had died."

Jemima snorted. From the various stories she knew of, her Papa had not been a particularly sophisticated lothario.

"It turned out it was only a discontented footman who had advised that marigolds meant deep regard before leaving his position," the duchess explained. "Your poor father, he was very put out to discover he'd sent the message of sorrow."

"Lord Varnay is one of the sailors in the regatta," Jemima said. "Perhaps Papa will give away his real thoughts about him when he sees him. I'll lay bets he says something like, "that fellow laughs too much, I cannot like it" and then we'll know it is just my father's temperament."

"I would advise you not to "lay bets" on any matter, Jemima. It is not very suitable language for a young lady."

"Grandmama says it all the time," Jemima said.

"The dowager is near eighty years old; she can say whatever she likes. And mostly does."

Jemima shrugged, her usual answer when answering aloud might be inadvisable.

"Well, whatever Varnay is or is not," the duchess said, "I cannot help but be disappointed that this flower arrangement is not from a certain duke."

Jemima did not answer that either, though she found herself equally disappointed.

Still, she would see the duke on the morrow, sailing the Thames. Sailing was a rather fun activity, was it not? That must show that the duke was not all frowns and seriousness. It showed a freedom of spirit to set sail and let the wind take one where one might.

Certainly it must say something about the duke that she had not yet seen.

Certainly it did.

And then, it was all too likely that Miss Pickering was at the bottom of Lord Varnay sending flowers.

"Mama, may I invite Miss Pickering on our barge on the morrow?"

"I suppose so. Though, I do not suppose your father will like to be reminded of Lord Varnay."

"Now it would be very unfair of him to charge Miss Pickering with anything."

"Yes, you are right. And you should have a friend, as I will explain to your father. Do write her and discover if she does not yet have set arrangements."